Monday, April 14, 2014

Let My Love Open The Door

Over the course of our thirty year marriage, Wingman had some eccentricities that we would continually argue over. For example, when the boys were babies, I couldn't hang pictures over their cribs, or later beds, because he was convinced that if/when we had an earthquake, the pictures would fall off the wall and kill them. 3000 miles from southern California, and every time they had a quake, he's say "You see? I told you so. It could happen here too." Really, there's no arguing with logic like that.

As the boys got older, we could only live on a cul-de-sac because he was sure they would get hit by a car on a street with a cut-through. And we couldn't live on the ocean which is where I lived when I met him because we would get flooded out in a hurricane.

Well, the house wasn't anywhere near the ocean, but it still took three feet of water in Sandy.

Even though we live in a town like Mayberry, Wingman was convinced that someone would try to break into our house. Every night for thirty years, he would check to make sure that every door and window was locked, then check the doors again before making sure that his 34 ounce Louisville Slugger was within reach under the bed. (IF someone did get in, the sound of his snoring probably would have directed them to another part of the house anyway.)

I couldn't open the front door a couple of weeks ago, so when my contractor came to install a new back door, I asked him to take a look. Wingman would have gloated "I told you so" because the contractor said it looked like someone tried to kick it in, and bent the lever. Being that I haven't been able to get out of my own way lately, not only did I not call the locksmith, I didn't call the police. But I did put the ironing board in front of my bed so a robber would trip over it. Or maybe at least iron my clothes for work the next day. And since that day, I started using the garage door to enter the house.

Which leads me to the collection of business cards my son found in the garage this morning. As he was leaving to go to school, a business card was taped to the door. Since the front door isn't working, it seems that the last person to come home from work last night (ME) came in through one garage door and hit the button for the other. In layman's terms, I screwed up and left both garage doors wide open all night.

Which is the third time, if the two business cards he found from other officers are correct. Short of an engraved invitation, I'm unwittingly allowing anyone to come in and look around. I will warn you though, that you are taking your life in your hands in the obstacle course to get to the inside door. There's the collection of rusty tools, the chain-less bike and that bin of treasures I couldn't part with. Once at the door, you'll be greeted by the useless killer dog who hasn't barked once at a police officer poking around and leaving love notes on the door in the middle of the night.

I don't have Wingman to check those doors anymore, but I found a product at one of the big box stores that does. It actually closes your garage doors for you if you forget. And before I finished this blog, I ordered one for each door. They take 30 minutes or less to install, according to the instructions.

No fuss. No muss. No more business cards on the door to remind me to safeguard my family and my belongings. And no hearing that voice in my head saying "I told you so."

Follow by Email

Search This Blog

Pages

About Me

I'm a Jersey Girl who thought I knew everything there was to know about being a widow from observing all the little old ladies at the retirement community I use to work at. What I've discovered is there's more to widowhood than black dresses and sensible shoes.